


Fortresses Need No Architects

by Bunn1cula



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5922742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunn1cula/pseuds/Bunn1cula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Empire, for all its overpowering might, is a sum of many moving human parts. Tiaan Jerjerrod, Commander of the second Death Star, is one of those parts: a man with dreams, ideas and a job that is quite possibly the least enviable in the galaxy.</p><p>Inspired by the deleted scenes from ROTJ.</p><p>9/21/16: So...this is on official hiatus. I apologize, because I hate unfinished stories as much as the next reader, but I've found myself wrapped up in a post-Endor AU that innocently presented itself to me as a ficlet, but has snowballed into 50k words and I think I'm at about the halfway point. </p><p>I'm still hoping to come back to this eventually, but it's probably going to be awhile. In the meantime, I'll still be posting ficlets and things, but the bulk of my energy is going into the AU. </p><p>Thanks for reading!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He never felt the explosion.

Moff Tiaan Ffyfe Jerjerrod, Commander of the Empire’s second Death Star, spent his final moments regretting his part in the apocalypse around him as the doomed battlestation groaned its terrible death throes. The Rebels had done as he’d most feared and taken out the moonside energy shield generator, leaving the unfinished station completely vulnerable. The Empire’s flagship, the _Executor_ , was lost with all hands. Several Rebel ships had penetrated the Death Star’s exposed hull and attacked the reactor itself, causing a massive destabilization of the core followed by an immediate breach. Violent chain reactions sliced through the superstructure and chaos erupted in every quarter.

The walls of the weapons control room shook with an unsustainable resonance while the few loyal crewmen that had not fled slumped at their stations, barely conscious. The durasteel floor pulsed hot beneath his boots and the oxygen in the acrid recycled air reached blistering flashpoint.

He grieved for his crew, for his unrealized dreams, for himself.

He’d only wanted to build spaceships.

***

The day began as any other for the past year on this orbiting construction site - mind-numbingly full of endless communiqués, data readouts and tedious meetings with tedious people. Despite an astonishing amount of progress in four years - the same amount of work that had taken the original station’s engineers at least fifteen - there had recently been an inexplicable grinding halt to productivity. This development utterly baffled the Moff, as he could not seem to pinpoint the cause of a cascade of supply chain breakdowns, personnel shortages, and downright slipshod work.

That the worst of the slowdowns had begun not long after his appointment to oversee the final stages was especially distressing. He’d thrown his datapad down onto his desk with a vigorous curse when he read that the large shipment of new state-of-the-art nanotech droids he’d been desperately expecting had been intercepted and promptly scattered to the four corners of the black market by bloody pirates, of all things. Messages from Coruscant were getting less and less polite and all of it was enough to make him consider putting a blaster to his head some nights when he’d had too much to drink and not enough sleep.

He’d been in the middle of a frustrating session with the boltbrains down in Propulsion when Lieutenant Endicott sent word that a Star Destroyer carrying Lord Vader was en route with an utterly unreasonable ETA of thirty minutes. This was damned irregular; normally Jerjerrod was tasked with traveling to the Executor to present his periodic status updates. This meeting was evidently so urgent that it had not even been scheduled in Fleetplan.

A cold sweat beaded Jerjerrod’s hairline underneath his cap, and he felt a prickling chill slither up his body as he confirmed the docking request at the nearest datapoint. He felt a little woozy - had he even eaten yet today? - and if it weren't for the several sets of eyes fixed on him at the moment, he would have had to sit down. He glanced around the room, saw the faces that plainly read _better_ _you_ _than_ _me_ , and excused himself to make hasty preparations for the arrival.

 

A platoon of Stormtroopers stood in formation, creating an aisle which would receive Darth Vader in one of the station’s smaller shuttle hangars. Several of Jerjerrod’s officers flanked him at the front of the line as he warily approached the shuttle. As he waited for the hatch to open, he stood in what he considered at this particular moment to be a very ironically-named _at_ _ease_ position. His mind burned with questions - was this about the delays? Why Vader? - and as he couldn't help but remind himself of the Sith’s infamous methods of punishment, he was unable to suppress a thick swallow that he was certain the officers facing him must have noticed. If he’d seen his reflection, he would also have observed that his pupils were so dilated that his grey-green eyes looked black.

The ramp to the gleaming white shuttle opened with a hiss and Vader was already halfway down before it clanked to the metallic hangar deck floor and jetted vapor. Vader didn’t break his long stride as he disembarked, the harsh wheeze of his mechanical respirator filling the bay and his cape billowing behind him like black smoke. Jerjerrod had to hand it to Vader - that big bastard knew how to make an entrance.

“Lord Vader, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he halfway lied, turning and doing his best to match Vader’s purposeful gait without making it obvious how difficult it was. “We are honored by your presence.”

“You may dispense with the pleasantries, Commander. I am here to put you back on schedule.”

“I assure you, Lord Vader, my men are working as fast as they can.”

“Then perhaps I can find _new_ ways to motivate them.”

Jerjerrod couldn’t help but bristle at this overt threat, and without conscious intention, he stopped in his tracks to make his point. “I tell you, this station will be operational as planned.”

Vader turned to face him, the bright lights of the hangar bay glaring against the shiny black rictus of that inscrutable helmeted face. He insultingly shook a finger at the commander’s chest. “The Emperor does not share your optimistic appraisal of the situation.”

“But he asks the impossible!” Jerjerrod protested with a grimace. He brought his voice down, hoping the entire hangar wouldn’t hear his plaintive request: “I need more men.”

Predictably, Vader was not moved. “Then perhaps you can tell him yourself when he arrives.”

Jerjerrod’s face froze and his breathing hitched. “The Emperor’s coming here?”

“That is correct, Commander, and he is most displeased with your apparent lack of progress.”

Jerjerrod felt his pulse skyrocket and his shoulders rise and fall with his quickening respirations. The idea of the Emperor himself coming to the battlestation right now was a living nightmare. A disingenuous half-grin seized his mouth. “We shall double our efforts.”

“I hope so, Commander, for your sake,” Vader growled, wagging that thick gloved finger again. “The Emperor is not as forgiving as I am.”

Another dry swallow, and Jerjerrod nodded in assent before Vader briskly turned and resumed his swift stalk into the station. The collective relief in the hangar was palpable once the last bit of his cape was through the hatch.

 

Jerjerrod’s thoughts raced as he made his way to his quarters. He could hear his own words echoing in his head, sounding to his ear more and more cowed each time they repeated - “ _The_ _Emperor’s_ _coming_ _here_?” He worried that he’d shown his undeniable discomfort with Vader more outwardly than he had intended. Chagrin heated his cheeks and he chided himself for making it all too easy for Vader to push his buttons.

He squared his shoulders and picked up the pace. Vader had been threatening and disrespectful and - damn it - this was _his_ command, Jerjerrod angrily reminded himself. He’d been appointed Commander of the Death Star by the Emperor himself; he was a damn fine officer and by his reckoning had rightfully earned his position.

Of course, he could admit privately to himself that the giant leadership vacuum that had occurred after the destruction of the first Death Star had worked to his benefit - after all, he was one of the youngest Moffs on the council, being not yet forty - but he was certain he would have achieved success even had that immense loss not occurred.

Jerjerrod was a proud man, and though he didn’t think of himself as arrogant, he knew he could rub others that way. It didn’t much bother him. Most people simply didn’t measure up to his exacting standards. The fantasy of perfection he expected from others had been smashed so many times that he’d all but given up searching for it anymore. People were a source of disappointment; they were messy and unpredictable. Craft and concept, inspiration and design - these things were poetry. Romance was the pursuit of the perfect solution to a problem. Beauty was a flawless vector or a precise plane. Everything else was static.

He knew he was fortunate to possess both a strong intellect and an imaginative vision. Creative, yet logical - with the benefit of a wealthy and influential Core World family name behind him - he was quite used to things going well for him career-wise without too much effort. He’d been noticed for his advanced engineering and design skills before he’d even finished school, and he’d breezed into a coveted spot at the prestigious Corellian Engineering Corporation. It was a competitive atmosphere and he’d flourished under the intense workload. It was there that the rapidly-expanding Imperial military had shown interest in his ideas and recruited him for a fast-track officer career in the Navy. He’d been thrilled by the prospect of working on cutting-edge warship design, and he found that the organized life of the military mostly suited him.

Well, it had suited his ambition, anyway; his marriage had been another story. The demands of the Empire on his time and attention, coupled with long deployments and infrequent shore leave, left the relationship as yet another military casualty. There had been too many months of strictly enforced communications silence while he was assigned to top secret projects in classified places. He’d loved his wife, and though she challenged him, he thought he’d finally found someone who understood his often conflicting need for affection with space. He knew he could be difficult to reach, and she was the only one he’d ever let in.

He missed her comforting presence beside him when he was alone in his bunk at night, but his head had been far too deep in the career game to notice when the home fires had gone out. The moment she’d sent him word she’d left him for someone else - carrying another man’s child - well, that had been the first time in his life he’d felt true, devastating failure. It was a bewildering pain he never wanted to feel again.

The second Death Star was quickly threatening to overshadow even that watershed personal disaster.

 

Once in the privacy of his quarters, Jerjerrod removed his regulation black leather gloves and dropped them on the desk. He paced a wandering line and ruminated as the bright distant glow of the Endor gas giant shone through his observation window. The view of the forest moon they orbited was much prettier, but one had to observe it from the unfinished portion of the station, where things were decidedly less comfortable.

For the sake of the greatest protection, the station had been set in geosynchronous orbit around the moon with the superlaser always facing outward, toward the direction where the likeliest possibility of a threat would come. What Jerjerrod did appreciate about the location of his viewport was that on the occasions any of the fleet would come to dock, he had a direct view of those Star Destroyers. The aerospace architect in him could study the intimidating wedge-shape and aggressive lines of those fearsome dreadnoughts for hours.

That is, if he’d had the time.

Staring out the window, he considered his current position. Having Vader here was an annoyance to say the least, and something that was damn sure not going to improve morale or efficiency if he went around crushing the throats of errant officers. The Emperor was another matter entirely. While Jerjerrod was relatively confident that the beneficial treatment his family had received from Palpatine since the days of the Republic was not in imminent danger of ending, he couldn’t help but dread the supreme leader’s arrival. He recalled how the shriveled old man’s very presence had made him feel physically ill when he had been summoned to Coruscant for promotion to command of DSII.

Jerjerrod did not pretend to understand the Force, but he was certain it existed. He had felt too many strange things throughout his life to dismiss it as mere coincidence and superstitious lore. His sensitivity was not something he had ever discussed nor even admitted to anyone else, especially not his family. Referring to the Jerjerrods of Tinnel IV as “stoic” would have been a polite euphemism for “icy as Hoth.” Materialism trumped metaphysics at the estate in Val Denn and there was no room for anything but the pursuit of prestige.

Appearances were also of the utmost importance. As the scion, his divorce had embarrassed the family. Looking back, though, he couldn’t completely begrudge his wife for cutting ties with the lot of them, even if it had meant forfeiting a fortune. He knew he came from unpleasant ilk.

Resigned to what he must do to get things back in line, Jerjerrod seated himself at his his once-organized desk and began strategizing the unavoidable task of working everyone to what he hoped was not their collective deaths.

 

“Have you gone mad?” Captain Feste yelped, dropping into the chair across Jerjerrod’s desk. Eight hours later the Moff was still staring at his data terminal, and his aide-de-camp had just admitted himself unannounced into his quarters and tossed a datapad in front of him like it was a pile of manure. “I mean, stark raving _mad_? It’s the only explanation.”

Jerjerrod raised an eyebrow at his assistant. He waited a beat, then replied, “I’m not certain how honestly you want me to answer that.”

Feste laughed loudly and swung his leg over the arm of the chair. “You look like shit.”

“Captain?”

“Beg pardon. You look like shit… _sir_.”

Jerjerrod ignored that. He sat back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face. The cap had come off long ago and he ran a hand through ash-blond hair that probably needed a cut. “What time is it, anyway?”

“2300. Prime time at the officers’ lounge, although I’m not sure how welcome you’ll be tonight.”

Jerjerrod nodded. He was going to have to get used to being more unpopular than he already was for the foreseeable future. Feste removed his cap and gloves, placing them in his lap, and folded his hands on top of them. He looked at his commander expectantly, blinking his eyes. Jerjerrod sleepily tilted his head and flicked his eyes toward a polished wooden cabinet in the corner of the room. “Go on, then.”

Feste grinned like a Devaronian and hopped out of his chair. He made a noise of disappointment when he pulled out a bottle of dark spirits that looked about two-thirds empty. “Commander, I am betrayed! Have you been drinking without me?”

“Once or twice, I’m afraid.”

“You must be training up,” Feste quipped as he returned to the desk with the bottle and two small glasses. “This was nearly full the last time you and I…conferenced.”

He poured two liberal shots and then topped one off nearly to the rim, sliding it gingerly across the desk so as not to spill its contents. “You look like you need it.”

Jerjerrod almost protested and then thought better of it. He took the glass, carefully held it up to Feste in salutation, and downed it in one go. It was a good, aged Corellian whiskey, meant for sipping and savoring, but this was not the time for leisurely pursuit of pleasure; this was a time for anesthesia.

Feste stared at him and laughed. “I can see how your private stock has dwindled to such a sad state, sir.” He started to take a sip of the caramel-colored booze and then knocked the whole glass back himself. He slapped his trim belly. “Now that’s the stuff.”

“Certainly better than you’d find in the officers’ lounge,” Jerjerrod agreed a bit ruefully.

“Oh, we don’t need them anyway.” Feste poured two more generous splashes into their glasses and sat back. “So, then. Let’s see if I have all of this straight.” He uncurled one finger from around his glass and pointed to the pad he’d dumped on the desk. “All leave cancelled. Mandatory overtime for all ranks and positions. Extended workdays. Limited liberty. Actual _closing_ _time_ at the lounges?” He made a shocked face. “Unprecedented!”

“Well, we can’t expect to finish on schedule if you people are always drunk.”

“Speak for yourself, I do my best work when I’m drunk.”

“Spoken like a true Outer Rim Navy man.”

Feste laughed and exaggerated his native lilt. “Indeed I am, troo’ and troo’. So, did I miss anything?”

“Vader.”

“Oh, yes,” Feste snorted. “How could I have forgotten? If we cock this up, we’ll all end up like Ozzel and Needa. Very motivating.” He rolled his eyes and tossed back his drink.

That smarted a bit. Jerjerrod hadn’t many people he’d call a friend, but he’d gotten to know Lorth Needa a bit over the years and had quite liked him. Shame how he’d gone out. Perhaps if he hadn’t practically placed his neck on the block he may still be on his ship. “I think,” he said, holding the glass up to his lips, “that if anyone here would get the, ah, permanent demotion, it’d be me.”

“Oh, a field promotion for me, then! Cheers.”

“So the Emperor coming here doesn't concern you, then.”

“Ah. Never mind. Don’t want it.”

 

Forty-five minutes later, Jerjerrod was hammered. Fifteen minutes after that, the bottle was empty and his aide had gone. It turned out he really hadn’t eaten anything all day, and now his head was swimming. _Sithspit_ …why had he let Feste come in here and talk him into draining the last of his whiskey? He appreciated the familiar companionship he had with his indispensable but irreverent assistant, for it was one of the very few such relationships he had, but sometimes the man had a way of taking advantage of his amity. He doubted he’d be able to get any more of the good stuff while he was under such scrutiny. Hell, he probably couldn’t even get a can of Tinnelian sardines if he’d wanted, with the way supply lines were so fragged. He’d have to make do with the same military-grade rotgut as everyone else from here on out. His stomach already roiled in protest.

Groaning, he fumbled at the fasteners on his tunic and somehow managed to hang it up. He struggled with his boots, then undressed the rest of the way before collapsing into his bunk.

He dreamed of being battered by huge swells on a squally grey sea back home, desperately trying to hold the helm of the cutter he’d had as an adolescent. There was no crew aboard with him; he was alone. He woke up early the next morning covered in a freezing sweat, his head pounding and a feeling of dread in his gut that he suspected originated from beyond a simple hangover.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Emperor arrives and things get worse.

The Death Star, true to its name, felt like a necropolis. Two weeks had passed since Vader’s arrival dropped a pall on the station and buried everyone in near-thralldom.

Tensions were high, morale was low and fuses were short. Exhaustion was leading to inattentiveness, causing in turn the occurrences of a few gruesome workplace accidents that Jerjerrod was remorseful to describe in his log. The daily reports from sick bay were increasingly grim, and if he read about one more fight in a canteen he swore he’d close all the lounges for good.

Vader had never let up his daily harassment, and Jerjerrod couldn’t believe his back hadn’t yet broken after how hard he’d been ridden. Thankfully, things were finally starting to come together. Despite the injuries and fatalities of crew bodies and spirits, the project was back on track for on-time completion. Any relief at this news was short-lived, however, as the Emperor’s inspection was at hand.

 

Jerjerrod briefed the officer of the day before Feste arrived to escort him to Vader. Even his aide’s usually blithe attitude was subdued. The naturally upturned corners of his mouth were tightened into a hard line as he gave a quick brush to his CO’s uniform and ensured his looser-than-usual belt was straight. He gave Jerjerrod a nod and they wordlessly left to join the presenting of troops to their Supreme Leader.

 

The spectacle prepared for the Emperor was akin to an Empire Day celebration. Squadrons of shrieking TIE fighters performed fly-bys past the gaping entrance to the Death Star’s main hangar while the phalanx of Star Destroyers from Death Squadron surrounded the perimeter. The _Executor_ held court in the center of it all, the black Queen of the Imperial Navy.

The Death Star’s cavernous main deck was filled with regiments of sailors, soldiers, officers, Stormtroopers and technical personnel, framed at the edges by a backline of polished black droids.

The unreasonably brisk march to the main hangar with Vader left everyone but the big Sith winded. Jerjerrod concentrated on keeping his breathing as even as possible once he took his place behind Vader at front and center of the presentation. A familiar icy sensation began slithering through him but he remained still, eyes forward.

The Emperor’s shuttle crouched in the bay, wings folded like a giant white wasp. Six red drones of the Imperial Guard emerged from the belly of the ship and took their place at the front, flanking Vader and Jerjerrod.

As the first view of the Emperor’s coarse black robes emerged through the gangway’s hissing hydraulic vapors, Vader knelt on one knee and bowed his head. Jerjerrod followed suit, though he kept his head neutral, eyes down. Stars, he was freezing.

Palpatine crept with his gnarled cane down the ramp and onto the deck, his pallid white hands in stark contrast against his inky garments. His motley Ruling Councillors trailed behind him with their flamboyant hats and peculiar faces.

“Rise, my friend,” the Emperor commanded in his graveled baritone. He gestured to Vader, who obediently stood and turned to escort his master through the aisle of troops. Jerjerrod rose and turned as they passed him, following a respectful step behind. He kept his eyes ahead and his face a mask. He found he was close enough to hear everything being said between Palpatine and his apprentice.

“The Death Star will be completed on schedule,” said Vader, his helmet tilted deferentially toward his master.

“You’ve done well, Lord Vader.” The Emperor brought his head up, his face still mostly obscured from the side by his impenetrable cowl. “And now I sense you wish to continue your search for young Skywalker.”

Vader turned toward Palpatine as if surprised. “Yes, my master,” he murmured.

“Patience, my friend. In time he will seek you out, and when he does, you must bring him before me. He has grown strong. Only together can we turn him to the Dark Side of the Force.”

Even over the roar of parading TIE fighters, Jerjerrod heard every word.

“As you wish,” Vader darkly agreed.

“Everything is proceeding as I have foreseen.” Palpatine aimed a shadowed grin at Vader and his terrible laugh echoed throughout the hangar.

Jerjerrod suppressed a shudder and backed off a step as the retinue continued their ingress. That cackle had frozen his blood.

 

Skywalker.

It was well-known amongst Imperial upper echelons that Vader had made pursuing the boy his most important mission. The reason for that obsession had been guessed at in furtive conversations throughout the fleet, but most reckoned it had to be more than just the desire to find the young Rebel that had destroyed the first Death Star with a lucky shot. Vader had ordered a squadron of Star Destroyers along with the fleet’s own flagship into a damned asteroid field, of all places, in an attempt to capture Skywalker’s closest companions after the Battle of Hoth. A few ships and several hundred men had been lost in that unsuccessful gambit.

It couldn’t be anything but personal.

Jerjerrod didn’t care to speculate on Vader’s private matters; he preferred not to think about Palpatine’s thug at all. He was concerned, however, that there was something else at play regarding the timeliness of the Emperor’s inspection. So far, there had been no mention made of the longstanding plans to have the station ready for a harassment campaign against the insurgent worlds of Mon Calamari and Chandrila. Nobody wanted another Alderaan, but the Alliance continued to gain strength as the number of worlds sympathetic to its cause grew unfettered. Jerjerrod was working hard to ensure the station would be finished as promised so that these threats to peace could be contained as soon as possible.

Skywalker, however, had been the first subject the Emperor addressed with Vader when he came aboard. It gave Jerjerrod an uneasy feeling. The first shadow of doubt about his place in things whispered through his mind.

 

The meeting that afternoon with Colonels Dyer and Jon in the strategic conference room felt like it had been dragging for days. Jerjerrod had little patience for Army matters to begin with but the current topic of disagreement was positively stultifying. He was having a hard time focusing on anything but how Colonel Dyer was getting so angry that he was quite literally spitting out his words. Jerjerrod watched the arc of one burst of saliva reach its apex and entertained himself by calculating the approximate radius of its circle before it came to rest beside Colonel Jon’s glass of water.

“My regiment has been successfully guarding this moon installation against any incursion since the beginning of this operation. I will be damned if anyone tries to step in here and take over without consulting with any of my people on procedure!”

“Your troops have not encountered anything more threatening than a few skittish furry things with sticks,” Colonel Jon sniffed. “My men are elite.”

“Those ‘furry things with sticks’ have managed to kill several officers, I’ll have you know. They are not as harmless as they appear.”

“Killed your officers, you say? I see I have no need to continue,” Jon sneered, folding his hands in front of him.

Dyer sputtered, looking like he wanted to overturn the table; thankfully, the reinforced durasteel construction made that impossible for even a Wookiee. “I refuse to hand over anything related to security until a proper debriefing has occurred!”

Jerjerrod felt a nudge at his elbow. Feste stared dead ahead as he casually turned a datapad in the Moff's direction.

He glanced down at the screen and noticed a sketch drawn in the margin between Feste’s detailed minutes notes. He jerked his eyes away when he recognized the coarse likenesses of the two colonels engaged in a heated blasterfight of the most euphemistic variety. The drawing was crude but unmistakably vulgar. He managed to keep his face impassive but for a slight twitch at the right corner of his mouth. His hand flew to his jaw and rubbed it roughly. He prayed that his fair skin, now nearly paper-white after almost a year in space, was not betraying him with color.

Fucking Feste.

The meeting drew to a close with Jerjerrod’s assertion that the Emperor himself had directed Colonel Jon’s troops to take over command of Moon Support, but that the transition may be aided if Colonel Dyer’s men staggered shifts in the bunker for the time being. After a bit more bickering, the compromise was eventually agreed to.

Hutt’s balls, Jerjerrod thought with irritation, why wasn’t there a general here making these decisions for these dirt-pounding idiots?

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have involved himself in these affairs but the fact that the energy shield was the only thing keeping the station protected meant he had considerable interest. There were also support repulsorlifts on the base that aided keeping the station at the optimal orbit level. While the number of onboard repulsors that had recently come online should theoretically have been enough to maintain proper altitude, the redundancy made Jerjerrod feel more secure about the station not becoming a massive meteor should the moon compound be compromised.

It was one thing to be caught with your trousers down and your arse hanging out; it was another to fall screaming out of the sky in a giant ball of flames.

 

After the meeting, Jerjerrod made sure he ran Feste ragged the rest of the day doing menial errands as payback. He’d had half a mind to send his assistant over to the _Executor_ to see if Admiral Piett had any halfway decent whiskey to spare, but thought the better of it when he considered the possibility that not all of it would make it back to him. His aide had complained that most of the tasks he’d been assigned could easily have been performed by a droid, but Jerjerrod reminded him of his personal distrust of the things while giving him a savage grin.

A few years back, the Imperial Security Bureau had outfitted thousands of RA-7 protocol droids with surveillance software and then “gifted” many of them to high-ranking officers for use as personal assistants. Jerjerrod wasn’t overly fond of the bug-faced androids to begin with, but once he’d learned of the ruse, he’d ensured his own model had somehow been lost in an unfortunate accident deep in the Sea of Denn.

The ISB’s surveillance program had ended shortly afterwards, but Jerjerrod never got over his dislike of artificial intelligence. He’d already had little use for unimaginative people; he had no time at all for humorless approximations of the same.

 

He was neck-deep in requisition forms for astromech engineers after a half-dozen were recently lost to “nervous exhaustion” and two more to suicide when his holoprojector came to life. The combination of lack of sleep and the sudden three-dimensional appearance of Palpatine’s face on his desk caused him to jerk in surprise. Vader’s rasp was unmistakable from somewhere out of view as the Emperor requested his presence in the Throne Room.

After he’d acknowledged the request, he got himself together and went to the head, removed his cap, and splashed cold water on his face. As he examined the thankfully-acceptable state of his shave, he noticed that the fine lines creasing the corners of his eyes were multiplying. Stray strands of grey mockingly peeked from his temples. His physique was still trim, though perhaps a little too thin these days. On the whole, his appearance was still relatively youthful, but when he looked closely he could see the evidence of time and stress having their relentless way with him.

The Emperor’s Throne Room was at the vertex of a one hundred-story spire at the north pole of the battlestation. The room’s four chambers formed a cross at the top, perching like an enormous crow’s nest on a towering mast above the structure. The vantage point, along with his numerous viewscreens and datapoints, gave Palpatine a near-omnipotent view of the Death Star’s surroundings. The interior lighting was kept low so as not to interfere with the majestic spectacle of stars and ships dotting the panorama. The effect elicited an appropriate feeling of reverence in all who found themselves admitted to this inner sanctum.

The doors to the turbolift slid open and Jerjerrod found himself looking up at two crimson Imperial guardsmen armed with Forcepikes. From his platform, the Emperor waved a hand and the guards resumed their positions on either side of the lift doors. Jerjerrod slowly let out the breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding and approached the bottom of the throne platform. He knelt deferentially. “You wished to see me, Your Highness?”

From his position beside the Emperor, Vader almost imperceptibly tilted his head as he registered the Moff’s lack of acknowledgement toward him. It was subtle, but Jerjerrod noticed it with a tinge of satisfaction. He wasn’t above being petty.

“Yes, Commander,” came Palpatine’s sibilant reply. He gestured for Jerjerrod to ascend the stairs to the top of the throne platform. “I have brought you here to advise you of my plans for this battlestation.”

Jerjerrod stood in front of the sizable command chair and placed his hands respectfully behind his back. “As I have advised Lord Vader, your Highness, the station will be completed for the operation against the seditious worlds of—”

“Those plans are no longer a priority,” Palpatine interrupted with a scowl. “The Rebel fleet has gathered near Sullust and the time has come to lure them to their complete destruction. I have planted false intelligence amongst spies loyal to the Rebellion, indicating the existence of this station and that it is unarmed and unguarded. As an added enticement, they have also been made aware of my presence here.”

Jerjerrod blinked. He couldn’t prevent a frown from pulling down the corners of his mouth.

“The temptation to initiate an attack will be too great for the Rebellion to ignore,” the Emperor continued. “I have ordered the fleet to await their arrival behind the Endor moon. When they come, they will find a trap that will lead to their annihilation. You will fire this station’s weapon on their capital ships and the Star Destroyers will eliminate the rest. Here the Alliance will meet its end.”

Jerjerrod tried desperately to hide his concern. He couldn’t be hearing this right. A drop of sweat slithered down his spine to his waistband. “Your Highness, I must respectfully point out that we are still months from being independent from the planetary energy shield for protection. If the Rebels were to somehow gain access to the bunker—”

“Do not concern yourself with these things,” Palpatine sneered. “The Rebels will be no match for our best men…and you would do better not to question my orders, Commander Jerjerrod.”

“Yes, your Highness.”

Palpatine gestured to Vader, wordlessly dismissing him to return to his ship. The big Sith brushed past Jerjerrod close enough that his thickly leathered bicep nudged the Moff’s shoulder. Evidently Vader wasn’t above pettiness, either.

Palpatine turned his chair away to face the circular rear viewport and just when Jerjerrod stepped to take his leave, Palpatine called to him. “You may stay, Commander. I am not finished with you yet.”

Stunned, Jerjerrod stood rigidly in place, his breaths coming in short, shallow bursts. The serene tapestry of stars behind the Emperor drastically contrasted the sickening chaos he felt rising inside. His pulse banged against his eardrums like they were tympani. The last thing he wanted was to be alone with Palpatine.

“Your efforts bringing this station to its current operational state have been noticed,” said Palpatine, still facing the viewport.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“It has been a difficult task.” The Emperor’s tone was almost mocking. “So many problems. So many deaths.”

Jerjerrod wasn’t certain how to answer this, so he said nothing.

Palpatine slowly turned his chair back around to face him. “But yet…you have succeeded. Against all adversity. And at great…personal cost.”

Jerjerrod fought back a shudder as he felt something intangible prodding at him, exposing him. It was alternately painful, then curiously tender, gently but firmly peeling him open.

The Emperor rose from his throne and approached him. “You have sacrificed much for the Empire. I have seen it. You will be…rewarded.” He began to descend the large staircase and Jerjerrod had no choice but to join him, matching his careful steps. “I sense a discord between you and Lord Vader.”

This statement took Jerjerrod aback, but he knew better than to say anything. He didn’t have to; his mind was an open vault, through which Palpatine’s spindly fingers rifled freely.

“My apprentice is…conflicted. He is in great need of reflection. I have sent him to his ship to await my orders and to meditate on his position. We will then see if he returns to his place beside me.”

Jerjerrod felt very uncomfortable being privy to this unexpected news. He didn’t yet understand why the Emperor was sharing it, but he knew it was placing him in singular territory. It was not a place he wished to be.

“I need to know that I can rely on you, Commander,” Palpatine continued, “to lead this station into battle and to our victory over the Rebellion once and for all. Only then will I turn Skywalker to our side and together he and I will rule…with or without Lord Vader.” He raked his eyes over Jerjerrod in a way that felt almost indecent. “If Skywalker is captured, I want him brought to me. I will send for my apprentice when I am ready for him. In the meantime, he is not to be admitted into this chamber while I meditate on these events. Do you understand?”

Jerjerrod nodded hesitantly. “Yes, Your Highness.” Yes, he understood. He was being placed between the two people in the universe he wanted to be the farthest from.

The Emperor led them onto the catwalk over the open northern ventilation shaft that led directly to the station’s reactor core. Being intimately familiar with the workings of the Death Star, Jerjerrod was all too aware of the enormous energy being generated directly below them. One false step…he couldn’t look down.

“I knew your grandfather, long ago.”

“Yes, Sire. I was told he was fond of you. You have been very kind to my family for a long time.”

“Admiral Jerjerrod was a great ally when I was Chancellor. A formidable man. Some even spoke of him as a hero.”

Jerjerrod knew there was no point in smudging the truth. There were two opinions about the Admiral’s controversial testimony criticizing Naval Command during the Republic. He was aware Palpatine was reading his memories like they were written on his face. “Yes, and others thought him a traitor.”

Palpatine arched an eyebrow. “And which is it do you think?”

“I believe,” Jerjerrod began, forcing himself to meet the Emperor’s gaze, “that he was a man with a conscience. But I was never able to ask him.”

Palpatine’s laugh echoed around the chamber. “I wonder, pray tell, which are you, Commander - a hero?” He glanced down the shaft and back again at Jerjerrod, his jaundiced eyes burning like sodium over a flame. “Or a traitor?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't yet seen the ROTJ deleted scenes, now's the time.

Violated.

That’s how he’d felt leaving the Throne Room. Vulnerable. Used. It was not a feeling he was accustomed to, and it terrified him.

He couldn’t shake the dawning idea that perhaps he’d been set up from the start. The eleventh-hour reassignment to the Death Star…it had felt like an honor at the time, but it was turning into quite the opposite. He was beginning to feel like a pawn on the Emperor’s massive chessboard, not knowing what awaited him at the next move or how close they were to the endgame. He could only hope that he and Vader would not meet in the same square before then.

The more he thought about everything, the worse he felt. He couldn’t rush to his quarters fast enough to get in the ‘fresher and wash all the sticky traces of fear and humiliation away. It helped, but only partly.

As he exited the head and ran a towel over his hair, he noticed a bottle on his desk. Ithorian rum. Feste, that beautiful bugger - he’d come through after all. It may not have been a mature, mellow, borderline-contraband whiskey, but it would certainly do. He threw the towel over his angular shoulder, opened the bottle, and poured himself a double. It was fiery and sweet and scorched a delicious trail down to his hollow stomach.

The comm at his door pinged as he poured a second drink. He wrapped the towel around his waist and gave whoever it was clearance to enter. After what he’d just been through, he didn’t give a damn who saw him like this. He may as well have been stark naked in front of the Emperor, for all the privacy that had been stripped from him.

Feste strode into the room and raised his eyebrows in surprise. His recovery was quick and typically droll. “Late again, I see.”

Jerjerrod narrowed his eyes and tossed back his glass of rum. “Shut that damned door.”

Feste did as ordered, a quizzical look on his face. He’d never seen his CO like this before.

Jerjerrod roughly grabbed another glass and set it on the desk, filling it with an ill-advisedly large slosh. “Here,” he grunted, shoving it at Feste. “You’re going to need this after what I’m about to tell you.”

 

The two men stared bleary-eyed at each other across the smoke-filled room. Regulations be damned; this situation called for copious amounts of tobacco and liquor. They’d lost track of the time but it may as well have been a lifetime for the degree their perspective had shifted. Jerjerrod had mostly dressed and was stretched across the couch while Feste sprawled in a nearby armchair. The bottle of rum was still upright, though half-empty on the desk.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Feste slurred.

“It obviously does if you’re the Emperor.”

“Well, tactically, it _is_ brilliant - I’ll give him that. Realistically, it’s a terrible idea. We aren’t ready for an operation that big. They’re taking a big bloody chance here, at our expense.”

“Don’t I know it,” Jerjerrod replied, twin lines of smoke jetting from his nostrils. “‘Death Star.’ Hmm. ‘Death Trap,’ more like, if that bunker goes down.”

“Oh, that’s good…you should make that official,” Feste chortled, taking a drag.

“You can write the memo and send it in the morning.” He stubbed out his cigarette and sat up. He reached into his half-open tunic and scratched his chest before recognizing that he should button up. He must look a state. He managed to hook the fasteners with one hand and then rubbed his face. “You know, there’s more to this situation than we’ve been aware of. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been well and truly played.”

“How’s that?”

“This whole thing, it feels…planned. Like a great…machination—”

“Oh, great word, I like that one.”

“—in which the likes of you and I are cogs.” He gave a sideways glance at the interruption. “Bastard.”

“See, that’s the difference between you and me. I’ve never pretended to be anything else. Just a bastard cog in the wheel of the bastard Empire; that’s me. You, on the other hand…you’re a great big old dreamer with a great big old brain.”

“What are you on about?” Jerjerrod snorted.

“You. You think too much. Get out of your own head sometime; don’t take yourself so seriously.” Feste leaned forward and fixed his dark brown eyes at him pointedly. “There are other things going on around you that you aren’t aware of. Big things, small things. Maybe if you got your head out of the stars and back down here with us little people, you might see them better.”

Feste sounded almost annoyed and this was getting strange. Why was everyone so hellbent on deconstructing him today? He’d bloody had enough of it. It was time to regain control of this conversation. “Regardless, Feste, I meant what I said. I’m starting to think this ruse has been the Emperor’s plan from the very beginning. It’s been more far-reaching than anyone could have guessed.”

Feste looked doubtful. “So you honestly think this has been one great big put-on, going all the way back to the idea of this thing even being built? No offense…sir…but that’s awfully paranoid. Not to mention potentially the biggest stinkin’ waste of credits in history.”

Jerjerrod shrugged. He stood and fetched one more drink, then shuffled across the room to the window, glass in hand. “Have you ever wondered why the Emperor chose me to lead this operation at this stage?”

“So we’re back to you again.” Feste groaned and rolled his head back on the chair. “No sir, I can’t say as I have.”

“Well, I have. As my many critics are fond of pointing out, I’m no Governor Tarkin.”

Feste looked aghast. “You’re damn right, you’re no Tarkin. Tarkin was a butcher!”

Jerjerrod raised a corner of his mouth and lightly shook his head at having triggered Feste’s liberal brand of political indignation. No, he hadn’t meant Alderaan, or anything else. He wondered if he'd been chosen to fail. He couldn’t say it aloud, but he knew his sensitivity had at least something to do with his current position. He could see now that, for Palpatine, it had been simple to play to his ego and then bully him in the most intimate way into doing his bidding. He felt a rush of repulsion all over again as he recalled how easily the Emperor had pared away his carefully constructed emotional exoskeleton and left him feeling like a peeled grape. No, he was certainly no Tarkin.

He gazed at Feste over the rim of his glass. “You’re a bleeding heart, Aeryk. How’d you ever make it to captain in the Imperial Navy, anyway?”

Feste lit another cigarette and fixed him an insouciant grin. “Me? I slept my way here, of course. Now if you’ll let me use your head, I have to piss like a bantha.”

 

The Emperor’s plan was dire news, indeed. The false intel had already been disseminated and it was just a matter of time before the Rebels responded. The shock of the unexpected intrigue and the anticipation of attack left Jerjerrod on edge. He’d always been a technocrat, later an administrator, and now he found himself abruptly on the leading precipice of war. He’d been trained, of course, and was versed in tactical theory, but that’s all it was to him - theory. He’d never yearned for frontline command, yet here he was, preparing for what would probably be the most important battle in galactic history.

He knew it would either be the greatest or worst moment of his lifetime; stars forbid, perhaps even his last. He mustered his resolve and determined he would devote his best efforts to victory.

No more drinking. No more smoking. No more wasted late nights with Feste, avoiding responsibility. It was time to face the reality that his place in history was about to be written, whether he was ready for it or not.

He may not have had someone who loved him; he may not have had children to carry on his family name, but by the Force, his legacy would lie with the second Death Star and what would surely become known as the Battle of Endor.

 

Despite Palpatine’s instructions to Vader to remain on the Executor, Jerjerrod received several reports of the Sith lurking around the station. This was disconcerting, but not disruptive. Technically, the Emperor had only directed Jerjerrod to keep Vader from entering the Throne Room. He chose to ignore the infractions and hope nothing further came of it.

In truth, he should have known better.

 

The Emperor had requested him for some reason he didn't yet know, so his nerves were already frayed when he caught sight of the back of Vader’s helmet and armorweave cape in front of the Throne Room turbolift. He sighed a curse. This looming confrontation was evidently going to be unavoidable.

He kept his back straight and his chin jutted forward as he approached. He couldn’t postpone the Emperor and he was not going to allow Vader to intimidate him from performing his duties.

Vader turned his helmet to the side as Jerjerrod passed and tracked his movement forward to the lift doors. Jerjerrod forced an expression of stone, summoned the lift, and turned to face Vader.

Vader’s impenetrable black lenses stared back at him, his mechanical rasping far slower and deeper than Jerjerrod’s own shallow respirations. “I find your attitude disturbing, Commander,” the big Sith rumbled.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” Jerjerrod countered.

“I must see the Emperor.”

“That’s not possible.”

“And _you_ will stop me?”

“If I have to, yes.” Jerjerrod wasn’t stupid; he was wisely perturbed by Vader, but Palpatine petrified him. He had little choice in the matter of who to obey.

Vader stepped forward. Jerjerrod motioned for him to stop and the two Imperial guards behind him raised their force pikes. “You may not enter,” he warned in a tone a bit more imperious than he’d intended.

He knew it was going to happen before Vader even lifted a hand. The the particles in the air around him charged, raising the hair on his neck, and his perception wobbled. The violence of the sudden crushing grip on his larynx was even more shocking than he’d anticipated. His trachea compressed and his epiglottis spasmed shut as the telekinetic assault seized him. He reflexively grabbed at his throat, even though the rational part of his brain that somehow still functioned told him it would be a useless gesture. He heard himself start to gag.

The thought passed through his mind that this was what Ozzel and Needa had suffered just before death. Was he about to die, too? His lungs screamed for air. His peripheral vision darkened. If he could just choke the words out…

_“It is…the Emperor’s…command!”_

Vader dropped his hand and the strangulation relented. Air…sweet air. Jerjerrod gulped a few breaths and suppressed a bout of coughing; he would not give Vader the satisfaction. The guards behind him returned to their usual positions. _Impotent tossers!_ , his mind spat.

Vader crossed his arm against his chest and touched his breastplate, mockingly tapping his fingers against the armor. “I will wait at his convenience.”

“Very good,” Jerjerrod grimaced, nodding dismissively at Vader. He turned and stepped into the turbolift, his back straight and his head high.

Once the doors closed behind him and the lift began its ascent, he abandoned all appearances in a fit of sputtering coughs. He wiped his mouth with his glove, gagged, and forced back the urge to vomit. His throat felt like it had been stomped by an AT-AT and his tonsils were already swelling. He carefully swallowed a few times, took a few deep breaths, and rubbed the water from his eyes. He hoped they weren’t red.

He didn’t want the Emperor to notice any evidence of what had just occurred. He didn’t wish to appear powerless against Vader’s disobedience, and things were already complicated enough on board this station without adding any more fuel to the fire.

He’d have given his entire estate for a cup of water right now.

The lift slowed and Jerjerrod pulled down his tunic and straightened his cap. He strode through the doors right when they opened and approached the staircase to kneel, but the Emperor spoke first.

“The Alliance has a small team on the Endor moon, Commander. The plan is moving forward as I have envisioned.”

“I see, your Highness.” He quietly cleared his raw throat. Stars, things were moving fast; the Rebels hadn’t wasted any time at all. He pictured them circling the bunker like a pack of shaggy anoobas and prayed to who or whatever guided the Force that Colonel Jon’s troops were prepared to eliminate the threat. “Elite” they had better damn well be. Everything depended upon it.

“The weapon…it is ready?”

“Yes, Sire. The crystals are synchronized and fully powered. All tests are normal.” Blast, it hurt to talk. His vocal cords felt like shredded meat.

“Excellent work. When the attack commences, you will report to the Weapons Control Room to await my orders. You will fire only when I direct you to. Is that clear?”

Jerjerrod opened his mouth to reply but an involuntary cough escaped instead. The tickle was unbearable as mucous flooded the back of his throat. His eyes watered and he couldn't hold back a wet bark. _Seven bloody hells_ …he helplessly hacked again.

Palpatine’s stare impaled him like a javelin thrown from across the room. He knew. Of course he knew. He tried to clear his mind, make it blank…think of home…think of water…think of — no…think of pain…suffocating…Vader…an invisible gauntlet, crushing the life out of him…

It was pointless to resist the Emperor’s examinations. Once again, he’d seen all. Those icterine eyes bored through heart and brain from across the chamber and narrowed into two malevolent singularities.

“Send Vader to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story's title is inspired by a quote of a quote from 16th century military architect Giovanni Battista Belluzzi: "Fortresses need no architects because they need no cornices or architraves or swags of flowers or other carved work which the cannon would send up in smoke." 
> 
> Despite its stark truth, the Empire and architects like Jerjerrod would seem not to follow this opinion. 
> 
> (huge thanks to Eisenschrott for the inspiration)


End file.
